Letting Go
by binary-express
Summary: There was nothing left, not now that Sherlock was dead. But John couldn't let go. He couldn't give him up. There was always hope. Post-Reichenbach.


John had considered ending it a few times. With the cold barrel of a gun against his temple, he sobbed to whatever God there was cruel enough to do this to him. Why Sherlock? Why him, of all people? He didn't deserve this, any of this. He was the most brilliant man in the world, he earned more, more than being just another rotting corpse deep under the earth…

The only that kept John going, kept him from pulling the trigger was his hope for a miracle, that Sherlock was still alive somewhere. That he had won the game. That he would come back to him and tell him it was all okay.

Harry tried to tell him to let go. She wasn't exactly subtle about it, but was she ever? John wouldn't - couldn't - let go, leave everything behind. She told him he would meet someone else, someone better than that, someone who wasn't a fraud or a junkie, someone who wouldn't commit suicide when it all got too hard. John didn't listen when she started talking about how there were worthier people out there that would treat him like he deserved to be treated, because he knew there wasn't. And he knew that Harry would never understand just how great a man Sherlock Holmes was. John would never, ever find someone else like him.

Sometimes, he went out for tea with Mrs Hudson, merely because she was the only person left that believed in Sherlock like he did, that understood how he felt. They never talked about him. Pretended that he didn't even exist. It was better that way, so much easier on both of them. There was no denying that Sherlock was real, but John couldn't even hear the man's name without contemplating placing the pistol to his head again, joining him so they could be the consulting detective and his doctor again. But, what if he was still alive…? John would never know if he killed himself. And no matter how much time passed, he never stopped hoping, never stopped believing. That's why he still met with his old landlady - because he knew that she would never stop either.

Apart from Mrs Hudson, John didn't even consider reuniting with the other people he had met through Sherlock, people such as Molly, or Mycroft, or Greg. It wasn't that he was angry - well, yeah, he was - but he didn't know that he could deal with it, that he could see them without Sherlock at his side. John wasn't that strong.

Even after three years, John still called out to his dead flatmate when they were out of milk, and that he had gotten it last time, before he knew what he was doing. He still hesitated before opening the fridge or a cupboard in the kitchenette of his new flat, as if steeling himself to find a limb or head inside, one of Sherlock's experiments. And when there were no body parts in the kitchen, he was almost disappointed. He missed the unpredictability, the adventure that opening the pantry to make himself a cup of tea became when he lived with Sherlock. He missed his best friend.

It took weeks of planning.

On the 16th of June, exactly three years after Sherlock Holmes fell from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital, John Watson let go.

He smiled at Harry when she visited the miniscule, mouldy flat he could barely afford on his army pension that morning. Harry didn't know what to say. The first thing she assumed when he opened the door was that he had finally given in, accepted the truth, that Sherlock wasn't coming back. That he had moved on. And about time too. He made her a cup of tea, and for once, didn't shout to see if Sherlock wanted one while he was there, or if he was too busy 'thinking', or whatever it was he used to do. They spoke briefly about Harry's newfound sobriety, and about how she had met someone new before he excused himself, explaining that he would be late for work. John hadn't held a job for three years. The only conclusion his sister could draw was that he _had _actually moved on. She left without even asking where. John couldn't help but be relieved.

The doctor caught a cab straight to St Bart's. In the privacy of the vehicle, he tugged a long piece of fabric out of his coat and tied it around his neck. He didn't really like wearing scarves, but today, just today, he made an exception.

He took the stairs to the roof two at a time. He was ready. He just wanted this over with. He wanted to see Sherlock again; it had been far, far too long. He briefly considered stopping by the morgue before he did it, just to see Molly, say goodbye, but he dismissed the thought. It had been three years. She wouldn't want to see him after three years.

The cool London air nipped at his skin when he opened the door, made him shudder. He let the door slam shut behind him, relishing the breeze that reminded him he could still feel after all this time. He was surprised he still could, that he remembered how. It didn't matter anymore, though. He knew he wouldn't feel for long.

John took slow, deliberate steps towards the edge of the building, towards freedom, the eagerness he had felt earlier suddenly disappearing. He had spent too much time planning this, too much pain. He wanted to make it worth the effort.

Without hesitation, he stood up on the low barricade, peering around at the grey London below him. St Bart's was ridiculously high up. John was certain that if he fell the right way, he would die instantaneously. So he made sure he did. The doctor clenched the scarf around his neck, holding onto the last thing that mattered, the only thing of Sherlock's that he had kept. He was ready. It was done.

"You hate wearing scarves."

Perched precariously on the ledge, John span around and was sure that he was dead. It surprised him at how quickly it was over, how painless it had been in comparison to the three years he had spent without Sherlock. Why had it taken him so long to release himself? It amazed him.

"I… I missed you…" he said quietly, tears already clouding his vision. Sherlock didn't move, his face the picture of vacancy.

"I'm so sorry, John… I'm sorry for everything I've done." He looked away, as if unable to look at him up there on the ledge, prepared to follow him to his grave. John couldn't see that he was crying. "Please… get down."

John hesitated before dropping back onto the roof and again before stumbling over to the consulting detective, sobs rippling up and down his chest.

"I missed you so much, Sherlock…"

He reached out, breaking into a run and throwing himself into Sherlock's waiting arms, weeping into his warm coat. Never had anything felt so solid, so real before. It was almost ironic - things seemed more real in death.

Sherlock twined his fingers into John's hair, holding him against himself. He breathed out shakily and closed his eyes, barely able to speak.

"I am so, so sorry…"


End file.
